The Mage nods. “Good.” He looks at me for a few more seconds, then turns back to the window, like he’s observed everything about me that he needs to. The sunlight catches in his thick brown hair, and for a minute, he looks even more like a swashbuckler than usual.
He’s in uniform: dark green canvas leggings, tall leather boots, a green tunic with straps and small pockets—with a sword hanging in a woven scabbard from his tooled belt. Unlike mine, his blade is fully visible.
Penny’s mum, Professor Bunce, says that previous mages wore a ceremonial cowl and cape. And that other headmasters wore robes and mortarboards. The Mage, she says, has created his own uniform. She calls it a costume.
I think Professor Bunce must hate the Mage more than anyone who isn’t actually his enemy. The only time I ever hear Penny’s dad talk out loud is when her mum gets going on the Mage; he’ll put his hand on her arm and say, “Now, Mitali…” And then she’ll say, “I apologize, Simon, I know the Mage is your foster father.…”
But he isn’t, not really. The Mage has never presented himself to me that way. As family. He’s always treated me as an ally—even when I was a little kid. The very first time he brought me to Watford, he sat me down in his office and told me everything. About the Insidious Humdrum. About the missing magic. About the holes in the atmosphere like dead spots.
I was still trying to get it through my head that magic was real, and there he was telling me that something was killing it—eating it, ending it—and that only I could help:
“You’re too young to hear this, Simon. Eleven is too young. But it isn’t fair to keep any of this from you any longer. The Insidious Humdrum is the greatest threat the World of Mages has ever faced. He’s powerful, he’s pervasive. Fighting him is like fighting off sleep when you’re long past the edge of exhaustion.
“But fight him we must. We want to protect you; I vow to do so with my life. But you must learn, Simon, as soon as possible, how best to protect yourself.
“He is our greatest threat. And you are our greatest hope.”
I was too stunned to respond or to ask any questions. Too young. I just wanted to see the Mage do that trick again, the one where he made a map roll out all by itself.
I spent that first year at Watford telling myself that I was dreaming. And the next year telling myself that I wasn’t …
I’d already been attacked by ogres, shattered a circle of standing stones, and grown five inches before I thought to ask the real question:
Why me?
Why did I have to fight the Humdrum?
The Mage has answered that question a dozen different ways over the years:
Because I was chosen. Because I was prophesied. Because the Humdrum won’t leave me alone.
But none of those are real answers. Penelope has given me the only answer that I know what to do with.…
“Because you can, Simon. And someone has to.”
The Mage is watching something out my window. I think about inviting him to sit down. Then I try to remember whether I’ve ever seen him sit down.
I shift my weight, and the bed creaks. He turns to me, looking troubled.
“Sir?”
“Simon.”
“The Humdrum—did you find him? What have I missed?”
The Mage rubs his chin in the notch between his thumb and forefinger, then jerks his head quickly from side to side. “Nothing. We’re no closer to finding him, and other matters have needed my immediate attention.”
“How could anything be more important than the Humdrum?” I blurt out.
“Not more important,” he says. “Just more pressing. It’s the Old Families—they’re testing me.” He balls his right hand into a fist. “Half of Wales has stopped tithing. The Pitches are paying three members of the Coven to stay away from meetings, so we don’t have quorum. And there have been skirmishes up and down the road to London all summer long.”
“Skirmishes?”
“Traps, tussles. Tests—they’re all tests, Simon. You know the Old Families would seize the reins if they thought for a moment I was distracted. They’d roll back everything we’ve accomplished.”